


We Are Turning Into Dust

by Black_Calliope



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hunter!Stiles, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 06:40:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Calliope/pseuds/Black_Calliope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In front of him, Derek had been a solid wall made of muscles - <i>just like he used to</i> -, smooth and almost marmoreal skin shifting over bones and tendons, just begging to be touched, to be <i>marked</i>. “I see that you are back in town,” Derek had said, tone quiet and controlled, but his words had hit Stiles like knives, and he’d found himself blinking at the white, sharp line of teeth in front of him, his sweat cooling against his nape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are Turning Into Dust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [veritas_st](https://archiveofourown.org/users/veritas_st/gifts).



> Inspired by [this gifset](http://briecheesie.tumblr.com/post/28519465801/except-for-you-stiles-what-do-you-turn-into). The title was taken from James Morrison's beautiful song, 'Broken Strings'.  
> Enjoy! :)

It has been a slow game made of too many nights spent following Derek, Stiles’ sneakers barely making any sound against the concrete of the alleys that the werewolf seemed to randomly choose for his walks. And when, one night, Derek had slipped into the anonymous door of a club Stiles had followed him there too, mingling himself between the sea of bodies inside the place, his clean, almost aseptic smell covered by waves of sweat, of blood pumping into veins at a mad rhythm.

Slowly, cautiously, Stiles had worked his way into the crowd, the loud thumps of the music echoing in his heart, pushing him forward, towards his target.

Maybe it’d been then that the hunter had become prey, when Derek had suddenly appeared in front of him, dark eyes burning like fire under the club lights. And, for the first time in his life, nothing but white, endless spaces had filled Stiles’ head, and he’d found himself unable to look away.

In front of him, Derek had been a solid wall made of muscles -  _just like he used to_  -, smooth and almost marmoreal skin shifting over bones and tendons, just begging to be touched, to be  _marked_. “I see that you are back in town,” Derek had said, tone quiet and controlled, but his words had hit Stiles like knives, and he’d found himself blinking at the white, sharp line of teeth in front of him, his sweat cooling against his nape.

Derek had watched him as Stiles had stepped back, one, two, three times, and had continued watching him as Stiles had put meters and meters between them, turning his back to the werewolf -  _to your past_  - and running away, pushing his muscles and his lungs, running until he’d crushed, breathless, against the wooden surface of the door of the shitty room he’d rented.

He’d closed his eyes, tried to calm down, but the only thing he’d been able to see had been Derek, his tall, toned body, the glint in his eyes, the  _call_  in it. “Fuckin- Fucking hell,” Stiles had muttered, finally giving up, hands fumbling over the buttons of his jeans, pushing inside his boxers, taking his aching, dripping erection in his palm. His orgasm had felt like teeth sinking into his flesh, venom rushing in his veins as Stiles’ come had spurted all over the carpet, knees finally giving in and colliding with the floor, bending over the weight of something he’d thought was long lost. 

After that it’s like Derek has vanished, swallowed by the silent shadows of Beacon Hills, and Stiles grows restless night after night, looking anywhere he thinks the werewolf might be hiding, visiting the old, crumbling house inside the woods, descending into the hidden underground where nothing but a rusty train car greets him.

He spends more time down there than he needs to, sitting onto one of the ruined metal steps, his rifle resting against his side as Stiles’ eyes wander over the grey walls, where the concrete has been ripped away by strong claws, where blood still stains the old paint, like one of those twisted, disturbed paintings that Isaac used to like.

When Stiles finally leaves, the sound of his steps reminds him of laughter and loud kids. He closes the door behind himself, and moves on.

It takes him a few more days to finally work it out, because  _of course_  he knows where to find Derek. He always has.

His old house is on the other side of the city, so Stiles takes his time, driving almost lazily, purposely taking the longer route. He turns up the radio and keeps his eyes on the road, doesn’t turn even when he drives past his old high school. The pull is strong, he can feel it pulsing against his skull, so sweet and yet so full of grief- He pushes the foot on the gas, and lets the car drive him far away from his memories.

When he finally parks the car in front of the house the first thing that hits him is the black Camaro parked in the driveway. He smiles between himself, remembers how Derek had looked into his eyes when, years before, Stiles had left. “I won’t ever hide from you,” he’d said. He’s kept his word.

The door is open and so he slips silently inside the house, hands steady around his rifle as he takes a look around, notices the lack of his father’s jacket on the coat rack, the way the wooden floor is damaged in a few points and how the curtain’s colors are slowly fading away. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Everything is not how it is supposed to be,  different from  _then_.

Stiles loads the rifle, and steps into the kitchen.

“You finally worked it out,” Derek greets him. He is sitting where Stiles’ dad used to have his breakfast, and he looks so out of place that for a second, just the blink of an eye, Stiles is taken aback.

“It took me a while to figure it out,” Stiles replies, and suddenly Derek’s eyes are on him, hungry and wary. Stiles tightens his grip on the rifle. “Honestly, I didn’t think you’d dare coming back here.”

Rage, pain,  _fury_  fire up into Derek’s eyes. He stands up. “Dare,” he repeats, barely in control, shoulders shaking and claws digging holes into the wooden surface of the table. For a moment, Stiles thinks that Derek is about to shift, braces himself for the absolute hell that is about to come, but then the shaking stops, and Derek sinks back onto the chair. “Why are you back?” he asks. And he looks so tired, so fucking resigned, that it makes Stiles want to slap him.

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, tastes the words on his tongue before freeing them. “I can’t do this anymore,” he finally says, feels something drop inside his chest.

Derek nods, as if he can understand what Stiles is saying. And maybe he can, but Stiles isn’t sure if this is a good thing or not. “You want it to end.”

And Stiles can’t help but chuckle, a dark, joyless sound that curls around them and just  _squeezes_. “It has ended years ago, I just want to make it  _stop._ ”

This time, when Derek gets up, Stiles’ hands act fast, rising the rifle and aiming it towards Derek’s chest. “Don’t,” Stiles mutters, but the words are blurry at their edges, and his usually steady, strong hands are betraying him, muscles shaking and fingers twitching against the trigger.

He watches as Derek moves towards him, eating air with every step he takes, his eyes never leaving Stiles’. “I won’t hide from you,” he says, pressing the middle of his chest against the muzzle of Stiles’ rifle, “I won’t hurt you.”

The night is so quiet around them that Stiles can almost feel the thumping sound of Derek’s heart, watches the way the werewolf’s chest rises and lowers against the metal of the weapon. “We are too broken for this,” he says. And it’s true, they both know it, their world is no longer made of warm colors and pleasant adrenaline, their dreams nothing more than mere, distant memories.

They are alone.

Even so, against every logic, Stiles finds himself lowering the rifle. Following a long forgotten instinct, letting the look in Derek’s eyes anchor him for the first time in years. There are no promises in there, just endless spaces and a dark path, but it makes Stiles feel like he is finally, after years, doing something right.

“Let us be broken, then,” Derek murmurs. And his words make something blossom inside Stiles’ chest.


End file.
